Walking in Memphis
by Dayanara
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale take a little walk in the pouring rain, and see someone they really didn't expect to see. Very fluffly.


'Walking in Memphis'

'**Walking in Memphis'**

Okay, so I know that this is a bit messed up, and that in the Marc Cohn version it's 'Muriel', and it's the Cher version that says 'Gabriel', but my brainchildren are often a little genetically messed up. And yes, I know, to all you Marc Cohn fans out there that this probably doesn't make any sense at all, but I was bored and I'm bouncing off the walls here, and I needed something to do. I also know very little about Memphis, so apologies there. Nor do I actually know if 'the Hollywood' briefly mentioned is a hotel.

_Disclaimer: I do not own Crowley or Aziraphale, nor do I own Gabriel or the song 'Walking in Memphis', more's the shame._

--

It was Friday night. It was raining.

Aziraphale spread his arms wide and took a deep breath.

"Don't you just love the fresh, rain-soaked air?"

Silence. Crowley grumpily turned his collar up and glared daggers into the back of his companion, steam spurting off him in clouds as the rain hit him. He glared a bit more.

Aziraphale turned when he got no reply and, looking at Crowley, heaved a deep sigh.

"Why are you being such a misery-guts?"

"Because I hate you. How did you convince me to come here? Why _Memphis_? Las Vegas I could have dealt with, Chicago maybe, but _Memphis_. It's just so… Cultural. You know I hate proper culture."

"That's not true. You like culture a little bit. You like good food. Is that culture?"

Crowley's eyes started to glow a bit.

Aziraphale's lips narrowed into a thin line.

"Do you want to go get something to eat?"

Crowley said nothing, merely nodded slightly, looking a bit pathetic as his eyes went out.

"Do you reckon there's a Ritz anywhere?"

--

Aziraphale nodded his head slightly to the left.

"Hollywood Hotel," he paused. "Does that suit your tastes, your majesty?"

"Was that _sarcasm_, angel?" came the delighted reply. Crowley had to admit, he was getting a bit bored of watching him struggle to find somewhere enough like the restaurants they were accustomed to, and was sure that if he was mortal he would be getting increasingly hungry right now. Piano music was drifting through an open window, as were some quite delicious food smells.

"Well I thought-" Aziraphale stopped abruptly and peered in through the windows at the front of the building. He stepped closer and wiped at the rain-streaked window with one of his coat sleeves, but it was no use, it was fogged up on the inside.

"Angel?" Crowley asked warily. When Aziraphale started acting strangely he knew something was up.

"Oh, we're going in there," came the gleeful reply. "We are _going_ in there."

"Why?" Crowley asked, but he got no reply. Instead, he just followed Aziraphale cautiously into the hotel restaurant.

--

"What got into you?" Crowley muttered after they were seated. Aziraphale was still not talking to him, instead was smirking over his left shoulder. It was a very un-Aziraphale smirk, and it was starting to worry the demon. Angels just didn't smirk like that. He looked incredibly smug, like he'd caught someone doing something very naughty that they shouldn't be doing.

Giving up, Crowley turned around and looked up at the stage. More importantly, the grand piano. Even more crucially important, who was playing that grand piano.

Crowley choked a little.

Then he turned around again and took a sip of the very good glass of wine that hadn't been there before.

"I never knew Gabriel played," he said, then stifled a giggle. Giggles were very undignified.

Aziraphale covered his mouth with his hand as his shoulders started to shake with suppressed laughter.

"Don't turn around," he said. "I'd be in trouble – not supposed to be on good turns with you."

Crowley raised one eyebrow at him and inclined his head towards the stage.

"Don't think _he's_ supposed to be doing _that_, either."

Aziraphale snorted. The people at the table next to them, a dignified elderly couple, turned to glare at them.

"Very sorry," Aziraphale murmured, trying very hard not to laugh.

After a while, when Crowley was digging into a very large, very very rare steak and chips, and Aziraphale was daintily eating the cream of cauliflower soup, the piano player stopped and approached the mic.

Aziraphale ducked down behind Crowley and covered his head with a napkin.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen, a young man we've asked to sing for you tonight. Never heard before, but very very talented. Please give a warm welcome for… Marc Cohn!"

He reseated himself at the piano stool.

Aziraphale looked extraordinarily silly with his head under a napkin, so Crowely pulled it off and folded it neatly on the table. The angel sat up again, extremely red in the face because he'd been holding his breath. He had soup on his nose.

Crowley chucked the napkin back at him.

A young man climbed up onto the stage and nodded at Gabriel. He started to play.

Crowley had to admit, he was good. As was the singer.

Something by Elvis, wasn't it? He recognised it. Ah. 'Blue Suede Shoes' - that was it. It'd been ages since he'd heard that one sung that well. Not since the King himself, in fact. Great man, good man. Shame about the aliens.

The song finished and Crowley muttered across the table, "He's gonna have at least one hit. I'll bet you a fiver."

Aziraphale muttered vaguely, "Don't gamble."

"Tell me, are you a Christian, child?"

Non of the other patrons heard it, but Crowley and Aziraphale did.

"Man, I am tonight," came the breathless reply from the stage as he was smiled upon by the angel.


End file.
